Merry Christmas, Seven
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Attention, please...present delivery will now commence!


Merry Christmas, Seven

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Star Trek: Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

Lyrics from _White Christmas_ by Irving Berlin.

"_Carol singing, _Doctor?"

It was really remarkable, thought the Doctor, what depths of incredulity Seven of Nine could convey with such a motionless face. She could give Tuvok a run for his money.

"It'll be fun," he wheedled, giving her what he hoped was an appealing puppy-dog face. "It's a lovely old tradition. Tom's already designed a Christmas holodeck program: an old country house, a roaring fire, snowflakes pattering against the windows, a fir tree higher than your head! Even our non-human crewmembers are participating for the fun of it – can't you just see it?"

"Yet another 'recreational activity'." Seven's tone was drier than ever. "I have no need of them. They are an inefficient use of my time."

He rolled his eyes; she gave him her brisk farewell nod and pivoted on her heel, about to leave.

"It's just a pity," he said softly, facing away from her and pretending to read from his tricorder.

"What is a pity, Doctor?"

"I suppose you couldn't have managed anyway...those high notes in _Panis Angelicus_ or _Oh Holy Night _are really quite tricky. It was silly of me to consider performing them with such a new beginner...let alone in front of the senior staff...ah well. If you can't, you can't."

Seven looked at him archly over one shoulder. "I will report for instruction at 1700 hours."

"Are you sure you're up to it?" he teased, grinning all over his face.

"Affirmative, Doctor."

As soon as the doors whooshed shut on her slender retreating figure, the Doctor began singing to himself: _I'm dreaming of a white Christmas ... with every Christmas card I write ... may your days be merry and bright and may all your Christmases be white._

=/\=

On Stardate 251209.1 – December the twenty-fifth by Earth's calendar – Seven was beginning to wish she'd refused, challenge or no challenge. She sat stiffly on the edge of a plush brown armchair in a corner of the simulated "old country house" living room. It was a wide open room with wooden floorboards carpeted in beige; the walls were lined with shelves full of venerable-looking books (the pages were empty; she'd checked). A Douglas fir, garlanded with red, green, blue and golden strings of tiny electric lightbulbs and bedecked with baubles and other ornaments, almost scraped the ceiling; at the top was a glittering golden star.

People lounged on armchairs, sprawled on sofas, and sat cross-legged on the floor, eating replicated roast chestnuts, fruitcake, sugar cookies etc. and drinking mulled wine, eggnog or (in the case of Seven and her young charges) fruit juice.

It was curious, Seven remarked to herself, how people drifted together into knots at a party. She saw Icheb immersed in an earnest discussion with Tuvok and the Captain; Tom, Harry, Chakotay and B'Elanna in a laughing group on the sofa; Neelix enthroned on a red chair with Rebi, Azan, Mezoti and Naomi clustered around him.

"And then he climbs back up the chimney, gets into his sleigh and – poof – flies off again!" he said, finishing off a long and involved description of the myth of "Santa Claus".

Mezoti sniffed. "Visiting every habitation on Earth would be impossible."

"Not if he caused some sort of temporal anomaly," Azan supplied helpfully.

"You don't really expect us to believe reindeer can fly, do you? asked Naomi, explaining to the Borg children: "They're a type of herbivorous mammal. Four legs, no wings, and _no_ glow-in-the-dark red noses."

Neelix shook his head and sighed. "Tsk, tsk ... I don't know how you modern children get so skeptical. When I was your age, I'd have loved a story like this! Do you know how long it took me to research this on Voyager's database?"

All of these groups seemed quite busy; Seven did not see any room for herself to join them. She sipped her glass of apple cider and listened to the ticking of her internal chronometer, wondering how much longer this was going to take.

And where was the Doctor, anyway?

At this point, the holodeck exit appeared, blotting out the fireplace. A stocky white-bearded person in a red and white suit appeared, carrying a brown bag over one shoulder. At the sight of him, there was a momentary hush. Neelix's eyes bulged, as if he felt responsible for conjuring the apparition with his story. The children fidgeted in their seats and avoided the newcomer's eye – especially Mezoti, who had been sneaking off to the holodeck lately when she should have been doing Seven's study assignments.

"Merry Christmas, everybody," said the stranger, in a familiar light tenor that was the very opposite of jolly. "Ho, ho, ho and all that. Now may I please get out of this ridiculous costume?"

"_Doc?!_"

Harry's yelp of astonishment was the cue for a round of roaring laughter. Tom got up and clapped Doctor Santa on the back. "Aw, c'mon!" he exclaimed. "Was that all you could do? Where's your Christmas spirit, man?"

"Submerged under layers of fleece, facial hair and fat tissue," the Doctor shot back. "Next time, if you want a Santa Claus so badly, _you_ wear the suit. I don't care how many replicator rations you bribe me with, this will _not_ happen again."

"Hey, why not?" Tom shrugged. "At least I'll know whom to put on the naughty list," with a pointed wink in the direction of his wife. "Computer, restore the EMH's original physical parameters."

With a beep from the computer, the Doctor shimmered back into his Starfleet uniform and put down the bag with a sigh.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen," he called. "Present delivery will now commence!"

There was a rush toward the bag.

Seven shrank deeper into her chair; she had replicated gifts for the Doctor, the Captain and the children, depositing them in a big bin in her cargo bay were all the senior crew had put their presents – for the Doctor to collect, apparently, as if he were the real Santa Claus. She was not expecting anything for herself, however, and she had her doubts as to how her presents would be received.

This was why it startled her to see Naomi running up, hugging a blue-wrapped package and smiling all over her small face.

"Is this really for me, Seven? Can I open it now?"

"Certainly."

Naomi unwrapped it methodically, folded up the paper, and gazed down raptly at a data chip containing a holographic novel. It was labeled with a picture of two smiling men: one blue and sparkly, the other brown and brittle. Naomi recognized them immediately.

"_Flotter and Trevis II_? Oh, Seven, thank you!"

Seven was almost knocked out of her chair by an enthusiastic hug.

This was the cue for her to become the center of a party-knot of her own. The children crowded around her, thanking her for her gifts, presenting their own. An impressive pile began to grow next to her armchair: holonovels, jewelry, framed holoimages, even a handmade clay bust from Mezoti. At first she wanted to protest – none of these things were really necessary – but the more they looked up at her, smiling and grateful, the more her reservations faded away.

"You see, Seven," said the Doctor at her elbow. "They're tokens of affection. That's what giving gifts is all about. By the way, I found my new tricorder this morning. It's very efficient. Thank you very much."

The Captain sat down opposite her with a mysterious smile, looking very handsome in a fir-green skirt and lighter green blouse. Her gift turned out to be a map – a floor plan of Voyager, to be precise.

"Captain?"

"Look for the red star," said the older woman. "That's where your new quarters will be – if that's all right with you."

Seven found the red star and had a very human urge to smile. The suite was on deck seven, section nine.

Waking up to the implications, however, she was less than amused.

"Where is my alcove, Captain? Has somebody removed it from the cargo bay without my permission?"

The idea of the hostile Chief Engineer tampering with her private refuge, sneering at the Borg technology or even reading her personal logs, was infuriating.

"Of course not!" The Captain looked disgusted by the idea. "It's just that – B'Elanna, Harry and Icheb have figured out a way to install the technology in an ordinary mattress and pillow. Your students tested it for you; it should let you regenerate just as well as the alcove. Except you'd be curling up under a warm blanket," she added, with her usual wry affection. "Like every other human on board."

Seven's feet in their high-heeled shoes, strained to the limit from days of walking around the ship and nights standing in the alcove, were eager to comply. The rest of her was torn between embarrassment (did her Captain see her as so fragile that she needed to curl up under blankets?) and gratitude to her older friend.

_Every other human..._

"That would be ... most agreeable," she said. "Thank you, Captain."

"It's our present too, y'know," said Harry, his rather pink face popping up from behind the Captain's armchair. "B'Elanna's and mine."

Seven repeated her thanks to him, guessing that the engineer had been either commanded, blackmailed or bribed to work on this project and would react badly to any attempt of Seven's to approach her. That was why she got the surprise of her evening when B'Elanna herself strode over and perched on the arm of the Captain's chair.

"Nobody should have to sleep in that creepy cargo bay," she said gruffly, avoiding Seven's eye. "Not even a Borg. That's why I got Harry to help me reconfigure that alcove into something more...decent."

She stalked away and plunged back into her interfaith debate with Tom (Jesus versus Kahless – they never could agree), before Seven could say a word in response.

When Icheb approached her, however (with a book of quotations from Earth literature), she knew exactly what to say.

"You should ask the Captain to arrange for a room and a modified alcove for yourself as well. Rebi, Azan and Mezoti will be leaving soon, but since you intend to stay on Voyager, you ought to make yourself ... at home."

He smiled and nodded. "I asked her this morning. Merry Christmas, Seven."

One step ahead of her, as always, he kissed her cheek and placed the book in her hands.

Tuvok gave her a set of Kal-Toh ("It would be my privilege to teach you"); Tom, a pass token for four hours of holodeck time ("Use it however you want, only don't decimate my robots again!"). Chakotay gave her a biography of John Kelly, the 21st-century space explorer whose ship they had discovered in a cloud of dark matter. In keeping with the period, it was actually printed on paper. Even Neelix, who had never quite forgiven Seven for using her nanoprobes to bring him back from the dead, had concocted a new series of nutritional supplements just for her – flavored ones, from chocolate and strawberry to Ktarian pudding.

It was the Doctor's gift, however, that left her wanting to cry.

Quietly, with none of his usual fanfare, he held out a glossy red cardboard box.

"Merry Christmas," he said softly.

She set it on her lap and opened it. Inside was a folded dress, very soft, shiny and dark red in color. She held it up: it would fall to thigh level, with a flowing skirt, square collar and long sleeves.

"It's _beautiful_," said Naomi, fingering the skirt.

"What is its purpose?" asked Seven. "The five biosuits you designed for me are perfectly adequate." Tight and restrictive, yes, but she was nothing if not adaptable.

The Doctor cleared his holographic throat. "Er, well...I've heard some crewmembers gossiping about those suits. Apparently they find them offensive. I've replicated an entire new wardrobe for you, but since so many clothes are a bit much to carry around, I've had them moved to your new quarters. Would you ... would you do me the honor of wearing this one for our performance tonight?"

Why did he sound so hesitant? There was such a look in his hazel eyes – a look she sometimes saw Tom's face, gazing at his beloved B'Elanna when he thought no one was looking. But surely she was misinterpreting his expression? Her grasp on body language was far from perfect, after all.

"Is he your boyfriend, Seven?" Naomi whispered.

"What do you mean, Naomi?"

"My mom said humans don't give each other clothes unless they know each other _really _well." The little girl gave an impish grin. "And everyone knows the Doctor – "

"Naomi Wildman!" the EMH exploded. "Might I remind you that not only are my auditory subroutines functioning perfectly, but that it is no concern of yours what I give my_ colleague_ for Christmas? I will thank you to keep any unfounded allegations to yourself – unless, of course, you want to give up your anatomy lessons in Sickbay."

Naomi blushed from the tips of her headspikes down, apologized, and darted away to help break in Mezoti's new _kadiskot_ board.

The dress really was lovely. It looked as if it were made for a woman – a warm, soft, smiling lady untouched by nanoprobes, who could touch and be touched without hesitation. It did not belong on a drone.

Had she changed so much? Was this really how Voyager's crew saw her – as one of their own? Was it how the Doctor saw her – human enough to do justice to this dress?

"I will wear it," she said, lifting her head.

The Doctor's smile was like a stained-glass window irradiated with light.

=/\=

Half an hour later, with the Doctor's clothes reconfigured to a tuxedo, Seven wearing the red dress, and a space cleared around the little upright piano, the show was ready to go on. When she re-entered from one of the side rooms, her blond hair flowing loose around her white shoulders, silence fell.

B'Elanna elbowed Tom to make him look away. Neelix's eyes bulged. Chakotay almost choked on his eggnog. Even Tuvok raised an eyebrow. Captain Janeway grinned her approval. Naomi and Mezoti exchanged wistful glances; would they ever look like that?

Seven, crossing through the room, kept her eyes on the Doctor, the lodestar to her compass. If it weren't for the steel reinforcements in her bones, her knees would be trembling. The room was slightly blurred; there was a tiny, insistent whirring in her head, giving her a headache. Of all the times to have even a minor malfunction!

Seven was not given to prayer, or else she would pray with all her heart to make it through her first concert without incident.

"Ladies, gentlemen and children," said the Doctor, taking her hand as she came to stand beside him. "Welcome to the first ever Christmas concert in the Delta Quadrant! It is my great pleasure to introduce my lovely accompanist, the one and only...Ms. Seven of Nine!"

Captain Janeway clapped her hands once – twice – three times. Icheb and the children followed suit; that was the sign for a veritable landslide of applause.

Seven tucked back her hair to take a bow, feeling all her anxiety drop away as quickly as it had arrived. Perhaps it was the "Ms.", including her among all the other titled people on this ship; perhaps it was simply the applause and the smiles of her Collective – all the people she loved.

_How low you have sunk, _the Borg Queen would say.

_How far I have come,_ she told herself instead.

She sat down at the piano and, as the Doctor launched into _Gloria In Excelsis Deo_, began to play.


End file.
